Third grade someone yelled at him, man, yo’ neck so long, your mama’s a swan. A corny crack that would easily roll off Q’s tail feathers today—but back then it sent him spiraling; dude wore turtlenecks for like forty school days straight.

Seventh grade I convinced Q to choreograph a hip-hop dance for winter formal; everyone’s gonna join in, trust me, I’d promised, as we practiced in my basement. Our lives are about to change, I’d assured him, as we stood in the center of the dance floor, waiting for the DJ to play our track.

It’s hard: sifting the past without dredging it up.

Fighting the urge to say how things used to be.

Because what you’re really asking when you say I miss the old days, when you say the old you would’ve done this, or said that, is: Why did you change?

You’re saying this isn’t the you I want.

“I watched a few of our videos the other day,” I say.

Q’s face scrunches like he has no clue what I’m talking about. I get it, though; he’s not gonna make this easy.

“Jauncy? That thing we spent most of our waking hours creating?”

“Oh,” he says in a way that sounds like so what.

“We were pretty funny.”

Q shrugs. “One of us, anyway.”

I laugh. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, man.”

And I see it. The faintest smile. Then nothing. But it’s enough of a flare to keep me searching for the things we lost.

“See what I did there? Number-one rule in comedy . . .”

“The truer a joke, the funnier it is. Surprised you remember that.”

“I know it didn’t always seem like it, but I was listening.”

He shrugs.

“You still tryna be Kendrick Fallon?” I ask.

Q shoots back. “You still rudderless as hell?”

I could return fire, but instead I absorb the blow, quietly.

The moon dips behind a cloud.

I try again. You want vulnerability, you gotta be vulnerable, right? “So, I’m watching our videos and I suddenly realize, man, I haven’t felt funny in a while.”

“If seventeen years is a while, I guess I agree.”

“Damn, Q lands another haymaker. He keeps this up, Jamal’s not gonna last two rounds,” I say in my best boxing-commentator voice. “Any other jabs you wanna throw?”

Q nods. “Oh, trust, I got hella uppercuts I could throw.”

And I should defuse things, but. “Well, let’s get to ’em then. What you waiting for?”

Q, eyes still tracking the moon, snarls, “Dude, I’ve never thrown an actual punch in my life, but don’t push me.”

A few kids run along the edge of the waves, tossing a Frisbee down the shoreline.

“You didn’t have to throw a punch because I was there to throw them for you. I was always th—”